Chapter 4: Two Shots, One Truth, No Brakes
The porch light was dead. Had been for three weeks. Jess kept forgetting to tell the landlord, kept forgetting to buy bulbs, kept standing in the dark like an idiot with her keys in her hand, fumbling for the lock.
She got the door open. Kicked off her heels. They landed somewhere in the living room, probably on top of the pizza box from two nights ago. The TV was still on, some late-night anchor droning about a house fire three counties over, static creeping into his voice like the signal was dying.
Her feet hurt. Her head hurt. The vodka had worn off somewhere between the bar and the drive home, leaving behind a dull ache and the taste of cheap well liquor.
She walked to the kitchen. The counter was still a disaster—margarita glasses crusted with salt, napkins stained with lime and lipstick, a single cigarette butt in the ashtray that Dana had left. Jess opened the cabinet above the fridge, found the tequila, and poured two shots without measuring.
The first one burned. The second one burned worse.
She grabbed her pack of cigarettes from the counter, lit one on the gas stove, and stepped out onto the back porch.
The night air was cold. Good cold. The kind that made her skin tighten and her nipples hard under the thin fabric of her dress. She pulled the door shut behind her, leaned against the railing, and took a long drag.
The alley below was empty. Just a dumpster and a stray cat and the flickering light from the 24-hour laundromat three buildings over. She could hear the TV through the wall—muffled, distant, like a conversation happening underwater.
She smoked. Thought about nothing. Thought about everything.
Cole's text had come twenty minutes ago. Leaving now. She hadn't responded. Didn't need to. He knew where she lived. He'd been here enough times in the past month that his boots had worn a path from the door to her bed.
Or the couch. Or the kitchen counter. Or the shower that one time, when they'd both been too impatient to make it anywhere else.
She finished the cigarette. Dropped it in the coffee can she used as an ashtray. Went back inside.
The kitchen smelled like tequila and stale lemons. She poured another shot, drank it, and was reaching for the bottle again when she heard the front door open.
He didn't knock anymore. Hadn't for weeks.
Cole stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and stood in the entryway like he wasn't sure he was allowed to come further. His uniform was wrinkled. His hair was a mess. There was a smudge of something dark on his sleeve—coffee, maybe, or blood. She didn't ask.
He looked like shit.
"You okay?" she said.
"No."
She walked over. Took his hand. His fingers were cold.
"Come here," she said.
She led him to the couch. The TV was still droning—something about a missing child now, amber alert, license plate number she'd forget in thirty seconds. She grabbed the remote, turned it off, and the silence that followed was so complete it felt like a physical thing.
"Sit," she said.
He sat.
She didn't ask what happened. Didn't ask about the smudge on his sleeve or the hollow look in his eyes or the way his hands were shaking just a little. She just climbed onto the couch, straddled his lap, and kissed him.
Slow at first. Soft. Her hands on his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones, her mouth moving against his like she had all the time in the world. He kissed her back—tentative, tired—and she felt something in her chest crack open.
"You don't have to talk about it," she said against his lips.
"I know."
"You don't have to do anything."
"I know."
She pulled back. Looked at him. His eyes were dark, his jaw tight, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying something heavy.
"I want to," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"I want to. Do something. For you."
She slid off his lap. Onto her knees.
The hardwood was cold under her shins. She didn't care. She reached for his belt, unbuckled it, pulled it free from the loops with a sharp snap. His pants were next—unbuttoned, unzipped, tugged down just enough.
He was half-hard already. She could see the outline of him through his boxers, thick and heavy against his thigh.
She looked up. He was watching her.
"You don't have to," he said.
"I know."
She pulled his boxers down.
His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. She wrapped her fingers around the base, stroked once, twice, watching his jaw tighten.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She leaned in. Licked the head. Slow. Deliberate. The taste of him hit her tongue—salt and musk and something underneath that was just him—and she moaned a little, low in her throat.
Then she took him in her mouth.
Not fast. Not greedy. Just slow, steady, inch by inch until her lips met her fist at the base. She held there, breathing through her nose, feeling him twitch against her tongue.
"Jess—"
She pulled back. Licked the underside. Took him deep again.
His hand found her hair. Not pulling—just resting there, fingers tangled in the mess of it. She looked up at him through her lashes and saw his head tipped back, his throat working, his chest rising and falling too fast.
She worked him with her mouth and both hands—twisting on the upstroke, squeezing on the downstroke—and watched him come apart. His hips jerked. His breath went ragged. His fingers tightened in her hair.
"God, that's—" He stopped. Swallowed. "That's so good."
She hummed around him. Pulled off just long enough to say, "I know," then went back to work.
The TV was off. The apartment was silent except for the wet sounds of her mouth and his breathing and the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. She could feel him getting close—tasting the salt pre-come on her tongue, feeling the way his thighs tensed under her hands.
She pulled off again. Slower this time. Looked up at him.
His eyes were glassy. His lips were parted. He looked wrecked.
"Can I tell you something?" she said.
He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.
She kept stroking him—slow, lazy—while she talked.
"You're the only one who's ever made me come."
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"I mean it. I don't—" She paused. Licked her lips. "I don't let guys go down on me anymore."
"Why?"
"Because they need a treasure map." She laughed—short, bitter. "And even with a neon X, they'd still get lost. Or they act like I'm asking them to climb Mount Everest. Like it's this huge fucking favor. Like my pussy is some kind of challenge they're not sure they're qualified for."
Cole stared at her.
"So I stopped asking," she said. "Stopped letting them try. Figured it wasn't worth the disappointment."
"Jess—"
"But you." She stroked him faster. Watched his eyes roll back. "You just—you went for it. Like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I came so hard I saw stars."
He groaned. His hips bucked into her hand.
"So this is me saying thank you," she said. "For that. For all of it."
She took him back in her mouth before he could respond.
This time she didn't hold back. She sucked him like she was trying to prove something—wet and messy and filthy—her hand working the base while her tongue traced the vein on the underside. He cursed. Loud. His fingers twisted in her hair and pulled, just this side of too hard.
"Fuck—fuck, Jess—"
She pulled off. Stroked him fast. "You gonna come?"
"Yeah—"
"Good."
She took him deep again. Swallowed around him. Felt him pulse against her tongue.
He came with a broken groan—hips jerking, hand fisted in her hair, breath coming in sharp gasps. She swallowed everything he gave her, working him through it until he slumped back against the couch, boneless and spent.
She pulled off. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Sat back on her heels and looked at him.
His eyes were closed. His chest was heaving. There was a flush creeping up his neck that hadn't been there before.
"Holy shit," he said.
She grinned. "Yeah."
He opened his eyes. Looked at her—really looked—and something in his expression shifted. Softened.
"Come here," he said.
She climbed back onto the couch. Onto his lap. His arms came around her, pulling her close, and she pressed her face into his neck and breathed him in.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For that. For—" He stopped. Swallowed. "For not asking."
She understood. He didn't have to explain.
They sat like that for a long time. The refrigerator hummed. The radiator clanked. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm went off and then stopped.
"Bad night?" she finally asked.
"Yeah."
"Wanna talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
He kissed the top of her head. She closed her eyes.
"Jess."
"Yeah."
"I'm glad I'm here."
She smiled against his neck. Small and private and just for herself.
"Yeah," she said. "Me too."
---
They moved to the bed eventually. Not for sex—just to lie down. Cole stripped out of his uniform, folded it over the chair in the corner, and climbed under the covers in his boxers. Jess shimmied out of her dress, threw it toward the hamper, and missed.
She crawled in next to him. Pressed her cold feet against his calves. He flinched but didn't pull away.
"Your feet are freezing."
"I know."
"Little monster."
She laughed. Burrowed closer. His arm came around her, heavy and warm, and she felt the tension in her shoulders start to melt.
"Cole."
"Mm."
"Whatever happened tonight—"
"Don't."
"I'm not going to ask. I'm just saying." She paused. "Whatever it was. You don't have to carry it alone."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled her tighter.
"I know," he said.
She closed her eyes. Listened to his heartbeat. Let herself drift.
---
She woke to sunlight and an empty bed.
The sheets next to her were cold. She sat up—heart pounding, mouth dry—and then she heard the sound of the shower running.
She relaxed. Fell back against the pillows.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Dana.
How'd it go last night?
Jess smiled. Typed back.
Good.
Just good?
Really good.
Tell me everything.
No.
Bitch.
Jess laughed. Set the phone down. Stretched.
The bathroom door opened. Cole stepped out with a towel around his waist, hair dripping, steam curling around him like something out of a dream.
He looked at her.
She looked at him.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
He walked over. Sat on the edge of the bed. Water dripped from his hair onto her comforter and she didn't care.
"I have to go," he said.
"I know."
"Shift starts in an hour."
"I know."
He leaned down. Kissed her. Soft and slow and sweet.
"Tonight?" he said.
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
She grinned. "Maybe."
He shook his head. But he was smiling.
"I'll text you," he said.
"You better."
He got dressed. Grabbed his keys. Paused at the door.
"Jess."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For last night."
She pulled the sheet up to her chin. "Anytime, Officer Hottie."
He groaned. "Don't."
"Too late."
He left. The door clicked shut behind him, and Jess lay there in the empty bed, sunlight streaming through the blinds, and felt something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
It was terrifying.
She smiled anyway.
She smiled anyway.
The sunlight didn't last. Clouds rolled in by noon, thick and gray, and the apartment went dim. Jess stayed in bed until eleven, scrolling through her phone, replaying the morning in her head. His mouth on hers. His voice, rough with sleep. The way he'd said her name like it was something worth holding onto.
She got up eventually. Showered. Ate a bowl of cereal standing over the sink because the dishes were still dirty and she couldn't be bothered. The apartment smelled like stale tequila and sex and something else—something that might have been hope, if hope had a scent.
Her phone buzzed.
Cole: You awake?
Jess: Obviously.
Cole: Just checking.
Jess: You just left.
Cole: I know.
She smiled at the screen. Typed back.
Jess: Miss me already?
Cole: Don't get cocky.
Jess: Too late.
He didn't respond for ten minutes. She put her phone down, picked it up, put it down again. Paced the kitchen. Lit a cigarette and smoked it on the back porch, watching the clouds pile up like they were trying to smother the city.
Her phone buzzed again.
Cole: What are you doing tonight?
Jess: Nothing. Why?
Cole: Want to do nothing together?
She bit her lip. Typed.
Jess: That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me.
Cole: I try.
Jess: What time?
Cole: Eight.
Jess: Bring food. I haven't grocery shopped in two weeks.
Cole: I noticed. Your fridge is sad.
Jess: My fridge is fine.
Cole: Your fridge has three condiments and a half-eaten burrito.
Jess: That burrito is dinner.
Cole: I'm bringing Thai.
Jess: Fine.
Cole: You're welcome.
She laughed. Set the phone down. Went back inside.
The apartment looked different in the gray light. Smaller. Cluttered. The pile of dishes in the sink seemed higher than she remembered. The trash needed taking out. The laundry needed doing. She'd been living like this for weeks—maybe months—and she'd stopped noticing.
She started cleaning.
Not because Cole was coming over. Not because she cared what he thought. But because something had shifted. Something small and quiet and terrifying, and she needed to do something with her hands.
She washed the dishes. Wiped down the counters. Took out the trash. Threw away the empty bottles and the crumpled napkins and the pizza box that had been sitting on the coffee table since Tuesday. She vacuumed. She folded the blanket on the couch. She lit a candle.
By the time she was done, the apartment looked almost like a place someone lived. Someone who had their shit together. Someone who didn't drink tequila shots alone on a Wednesday night.
She stood in the middle of the living room and felt weirdly proud.
Her phone buzzed.
Dana: You alive?
Jess: Barely.
Dana: You never told me what happened last night.
Jess: Nothing happened.
Dana: Bullshit.
Jess: Okay, something happened.
Dana: Details. Now.
Jess: He came over. We hung out.
Dana: Hung out.
Jess: Yes.
Dana: You're being weird.
Jess: I'm not being weird.
Dana: You're being weird.
Jess: He asked to see me again tonight.
Dana: And?
Jess: And I said yes.
Dana: So you're dating.
Jess: We're not dating.
Dana: You're dating.
Jess: We're just—
Dana: You're dating.
Jess: Okay, maybe.
Dana: Finally.
Jess: Shut up.
Dana: I'm serious. It's about time you let someone in.
Jess: It's not like that.
Dana: It's exactly like that.
Jess: I have to go.
Dana: You don't have to go.
Jess: I have to shower.
Dana: You already showered. I can tell by your typing.
Jess: You can't tell anything by my typing.
Dana: I can tell everything.
Jess: Goodbye, Dana.
Dana: Love you. Use protection.
Jess: We're not—
Dana: Love you!
Jess set the phone down. Shook her head. Smiled.
---
He showed up at eight-oh-three with two bags of Thai food and a six-pack of beer.
"You're late," she said.
"Three minutes."
"That's late."
He stepped inside. Set the bags on the counter. Looked around.
The apartment was clean. The dishes were done. The trash was gone. The candle on the coffee table smelled like vanilla.
He looked at her.
She shrugged.
"I cleaned," she said. "Don't make it weird."
"I wasn't going to."
"You were thinking it."
He almost smiled. "Maybe."
She grabbed the beer. Opened two. Handed him one.
"Cheers," she said.
"Cheers."
They ate on the couch. Cross-legged, facing each other, the Thai containers spread out between them. The TV was on—some cooking show, loud and bright—but neither of them was watching.
"This is good," she said, mouth full of pad thai.
"You sound surprised."
"I'm always surprised when food is good."
"You order takeout every day."
"And I'm always disappointed."
He laughed. It was a real laugh—low and warm—and she felt it in her chest.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing."
"You're staring."
"You're worth staring at."
He shook his head.
"What?" she said.
"You're a lot."
"Is that a bad thing?"
He looked at her. Really looked at her.
"No," he said. "It's not."
---
They finished eating. He cleared the containers. She opened another beer. They ended up on the couch, tangled together, her head on his chest, his hand in her hair.
"This is nice," she said.
"Yeah."
"Don't get used to it."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She could hear his heartbeat. Steady. Slow. Like he wasn't affected at all.
But his hand in her hair was gentle. His breathing had gone deep. His body was warm and solid beneath her.
"Cole."
"Mm."
"Tell me something."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Something real."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I was married once," he said.
She went still.
"Not for long," he said. "Two years. She left. Said I was too—" He paused. "Too much like my job. Too calm. Too controlled. She said she couldn't feel anything with me."
Jess didn't say anything. Just waited.
"She was right," he said. "I was like that. Still am, probably."
"You don't seem calm now."
He laughed. Soft. "No. I don't."
"Maybe you just needed the right person."
He didn't respond. But his hand tightened in her hair.
---
They moved to the bedroom eventually. Not for sex—just to lie down. To be horizontal. To feel less like they were performing something for an audience that didn't exist.
He stripped to his boxers. She pulled on an old t-shirt—not his, this time, just a faded concert tee from a band she didn't listen to anymore. They climbed under the covers. Faced each other.
"You're pretty," he said.
"You're biased."
"I'm honest."
She laughed. "Sure."
He reached out. Touched her face. His thumb traced her cheekbone. Her jaw. Her lower lip.
"I mean it," he said.
She closed her eyes. Let herself feel it.
"Cole."
"Yeah."
"Stay tonight."
"I wasn't planning on leaving."
"Good."
---
She woke at 2 a.m.
The bed was warm. Cole was still there—on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing deep and even. The moonlight cut through the blinds and painted stripes across his chest.
She watched him for a while. The rise and fall of his ribs. The way his jaw went slack when he slept. The scar on his shoulder she'd never asked about.
She reached for her phone. Opened a text.
Jess: You awake?
She stared at the screen for a long time. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Jess: Officer Hottie I want to officially date you
She hit send before she could think.
The little "delivered" notification appeared. Then "read."
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Three dots. Then nothing. Then three dots again.
Cole: You woke me up.
Jess: I know.
Cole: At 2 a.m.
Jess: I know.
Cole: To ask me out.
Jess: I didn't ask. I stated.
Cole: You stated.
Jess: Yes.
Cole: That I'm Officer Hottie.
Jess: That's your name now.
Cole: It's not.
Jess: It is.
A long pause. She held her breath.
Cole: Okay.
Jess: Okay?
Cole: Yeah. Okay.
Jess: Okay what?
Cole: Okay, we're dating.
She stared at the screen. Read it three times. Four.
Jess: You mean it?
Cole: I'm in your bed, Jess. I just spent the last three hours with you. I'm pretty sure we're already dating.
Jess: But officially.
Cole: Officially.
She felt something expand in her chest. Something warm and bright and terrifying.
Jess: Good.
Cole: Good.
Jess: Don't make me regret this.
Cole: I won't.
She set the phone down. Rolled over. Pressed her face into his shoulder.
He stirred. His arm came around her. Pulled her close.
"You okay?" he mumbled.
"Yeah."
"Can I go back to sleep now?"
"Yeah."
He was snoring in thirty seconds.
Jess lay there, wide awake, heart pounding, and felt the whole world shift under her feet.
She had a boyfriend. An actual boyfriend. A state trooper with a dead marriage and a calm exterior and hands that knew exactly where to touch her. A man who made her come and didn't ask for a treasure map. A man who stayed.
It was terrifying.
She smiled anyway.